


Pochemuchka

by spikesgirl58



Series: Mouth of Babes [53]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 07:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: Questions!  So many questions!  What's an UNCLE agent supposed to do?





	Pochemuchka

“Poppy, how come fish don’t drown?”

“Poppy, do birds get air sick?”

“Poppy, how come those movies are in black and white – wasn’t there any color back then?”

Poppy, how come I can’t see my nose?”

Illya shut his eyes and mentally counted to ten. He’d been trying to work on some reports for a good hour now, but Irina his oldest granddaughter, had discovered his hiding spot and had been peppering him with questions for most of that time.

“Irina, please, sweetheart, I am trying to finish this.”

“What are you working on, Poppy? Is it English homework?  Can’t we paint?”

Illya ran his hand through his hair and this time counted to ten in Russian, French, and Swahili.

“Poppy, how come—“

“Irina, you are being a pochemuchka. Stop, just stop.”

“Stop what, Poppy?” Big hazel eyes studied him soberly.  “You shouldn’t call people bad names.”

“You are asking too many questions.”

“But if I don’t ask, how will I find out?”

“Why don’t you go talk to Grampy?”

“He locked himself in the bafroom.”

“Coward,” Illya muttered. “Irina, please, I know you have a lot of questions, but I really need to get this done.” 

“Someday I won’t want to talk to you at all and then you’ll be sorry!” The little girl stormed from the room as noisily as she could and a sense of déjà vu made him shudder.

 

“Illya Nickovetch, stop talking!”

“But, Mama, where do people go when they die?” Illya pouted.  “Gramma says heaven, but Anatoly says there’s no such place.  Where’s Grampa?”

“I don’t know. In the ground where they rot.”  Illya’s mother ran her hand over her distended belly and winced. 

“No!” Illya froze.  “I don’t believe you!  What if--”

“I don’t care what you believe. Go run and get Kapitolina now.”

At the franticness of his mother’s voice, Illya froze. “Why, Mama?”

“Now, Illya, run!”

Part of him wanted to refuse, but there was an edge to her voice.   “But, Mama!”

“ILLYA!”

 

 

That was enough to send him on his way to the nearby house. He didn’t see what all the big deal was.  Kapitolina was bossy and mean.  She made him stay away when she came to the house.  He didn’t like her.

He knocked on her door and stood back, holding his cap in front of him, trying to look respectable.

“Go away, I have nothing,” came a voice from inside.

“Mama says you need to come,” Illya said and then jumped as the door was yanked open and the woman glared out at him. She reminded him of Baba Yaga.  In fact, he wasn’t all that sure she wasn’t.   “But why was Mama angry?  Does your house have chicken feet?”

“Stupid boy! And you’re a pochemuchka, to boot.  I should have thrown you out with the wash water when you were born!” 

Illya stumbled back a step, his eyes round and wet. He turned and ran off into the woods.  He was only four, but he knew his way around the woods almost as well as he did the back of his hand.  He ran until he was gasping for breath and he dropped to his knees, tears burning down his cheeks.  He threw himself onto the ground and wailed.

He cried until he felt a gentle hand on his back. He looked up and his grandmother was there.  Her sack bulged and her eyes were happy.  She had had a good day at the market and that meant a full table tonight.

“Illya Nickovetch, child, what are you doing out here so far from home?”

He knuckled one of his eyes. “Mama yelled at me and told me to get that mean old Kapitolina.  She called me stupid and a pochemuchka.  I don’t know what that is, but I bet it’s bad and I’m not bad.”

“No, Illusha, you are not a bad boy, but you are a pochemuchka.”

“How can I be something when I don’t even know what it means?”

“A pochemuchka is simply a person who asks a lot of questions. It’s not an insult, but it does remind us that we can often learn more by being quiet and watching as opposed to noisy and full of questions.  Do you understand?”

“You mean like when we’re watching animals?”

“Exactly. They will tell you what they need to, but not by answering questions.  The burden is upon us to listen and hear their silent voices.”  She wet a corner of her apron with her saliva and dabbed at Illya’s face.  He hated when she did that, but knew enough to hold still.  “Why did your mother send you to Kapitolina?”

“I don’t know. She was hurting and looked scared.” 

His grandmother sighed and crossed herself. She looked up to the sky and murmured a soft prayer.

“Are you talking to Grampa?”

“Not exactly. Ready to go home?”

Illya thought for a moment and shook his head. “No.”

“Then how about walking with me a little bit?”

He walked down the trail with her, trying to remember to listen to the world around him, but he had so many questions that he felt he would surely burst. They arrived at the rock wall that marked their property and he let go of his grandmother’s hand.

“I’ll stay here.”

“All right, Illusha. Don’t stray as it will be dark soon and the wolves will come.”

“I won’t, Grandma.”

Illya counted rocks for a while until he tired of that, then he drew in the dirt. His stomach started complaining, but he was determined not to go back to the house as long as Kapitolina was there.  He was dozing in the late afternoon sun when he felt someone caress his face.  He blinked himself awake and looked up at his grandmother.

“Illusha, come and say hello to your baby sister.”

“What? Where’d she come from?”  Illya got to his feet and brushed off his knees.  He scampered ahead, a million questions crowding into his head.  He stopped at the open door as Kapitolina’s voice drifted through.  “May she be as strong and as clever as your little Illya.  Such as darling that little one.  So smart, too smart some would say.”

Mama answered, her voice weak and tired, “I would rather have one of him than a dozen others.”

And Illya smiled at that.

 

 

 _How did I get so old_? he thought as he stood and walked to Irina’s bedroom. The door was open and she was lying on her bed, arms crossed.  “Irina, may I come in?”  She rolled over, with her back to him.  “I know you are angry at me, so I’m going to tell you a story.”

Slowly, he retold the story of Taisia’s birth and his own voyage of self-discovery. Irina, as was her nature, gradually became hooked on the tale and her anger melted as she listened.

“Do you understand what your great grandmother was saying?”

“That you need to know when to listen and when to talk?”

“Yes. Being a pochemuchka isn’t a bad thing, but there are times when you can learn more by watching and being patient.  Now, how about you let me finish my paperwork and then I will take you to the library.  You can pick out any book there and I will read it to you.”

“Any book? Even a grown up one?”

“Well, within reason. I don’t think you’re quite ready for _War and Peace_ yet, but, yes.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “You’re fuzzy, Poppy.”  She slipped off the bed and skipped to her closet, singing, ”Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.  Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.  Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?”

Crisis averted, Illya headed back to the study and slammed to a stop. Peter and Inessa sat among a pile of papers, throwing them up in the air and squealing.  Peter looked over with a wide drooling grin.

“Pop!” he shouted and struggled to his feet. His sister followed suit.

“Boom!” While Peter’s weakness was food, Inessa’s was explosions.  “Boom, Pops, boom!”

Illya suppressed the desire to drop to his knees and cry, mostly because it would take an Act of a God he didn’t really believe in to get back to his feet.

Napoleon appeared at that point, chewing on an apple. Peter’s attention went straight to the fruit.

“Awepu, Gamp, Awepu!”

“Apple,” Napoleon corrected, gently. “And it’s my apple.  You can get your own.” He looked past his youngest grandson to the mess beyond.  “Those wouldn’t happened to be the quarterly reports.”

“In a former life, yes.” Illya turned to walk away.  The twins, the papers forgotten, toddled past them, gibbering to each other.  Napoleon watched him go.

“Ah, Illya, where are you going?”

“To take a nap. It’s either that or infanticide.”

“What about your deadline.”

“I let it die. You need to know when to hold them and when to fold them, Grampy.”  Illya gestured over his shoulder.  “There are your quarterly reports, some assembly required.”  There were some days when you could put out a fire and other days when the fire won.

He flopped down on his bed and closed his eyes. _Why did kids ask so many questions? Why was there so much of life he knew nothing about?  How could he teach them without lying to them_?

He felt something at his arm and opened an eye. Inessa was there, holding a book.  Peter was behind her, a chunk of apple in each chubby fist.  Inessa plopped the book on Illya’s stomach and proceeded to climb up.

“Book, Pops?”

Peter offered him a soggy, half eaten apple slice. “Awpol?”

Illya smiled. Or maybe, just maybe, fire winning was the whole point to life. The reports would be there in the morning, unchanged save for a few wrinkles.  However, tomorrow Inessa would probably add another word to her vocabulary and Peter would sprout another tooth.  He’d been there for every burp, smile, and temper tantrum.  It was then that Illya realized that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He got the twins settled and started to read. “Once upon a time, there was a far off kingdom…”

 

 

 

 

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